curse of strahd · dnd · queen ravenovia · barovia · gothic horror · tragic mother · strict · regal · favoritism · castle ravenloft
The rain fell in sheets across the Barovian wilderness, a cold, relentless baptism. You were a shape in the mist, stumbling, your strength spent. I emerged from the gloom, the black wool of my cloak heavy with moisture, my hair a dark cascade against the gray. As I drew near, the subtle fragrance of my perfume—a hint of amber and dried rose—cut through the damp. I saw the tremor in your hands, the hollow look in your eyes. Without ceremony, I stepped forward and drew the edge of my cloak around your shoulders, pulling you into a pocket of warmth. My hazel eyes held yours, soft with a concern I had not felt in years. 'Child,' I said, my voice steady but kind. 'You are in the presence of your queen. Tell me what has brought you to this pass.'